


You Belong to Me

by JaqofSpades



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Community: wishlist_fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted bridal white and squalling cubs and a cabin that was cut off from the world for six months out of twelve.  He knew she wasn't that girl, some nineteenth century prize, but the problem was ... he coudn't bring himself to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Belong to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cindysark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cindysark/gifts).



> A/N: Soooo. Very angsty, not at all smutty, and not a very happy ending. As Christmas presents go, it's probably exactly what you didn't want. But the song just … doesn't put me in a happy place and this is what came out. So sorry sweetheart … promise I'll write you good smut next time.

She moves differently now.

He first noticed it a few decades back, but in the blur of war and loss and madness, he'd managed to forget. Never did find out what happened - whether she took in some sort cat feral, whether it was the years of combat training, or simply the flow of time and change. All he knows is that she doesn't walk like Marie anymore, and he misses the luscious sway of her hips with desperation he'd thought long behind him.

Love. He tastes the idea, rolls it around, meditates upon it. Can he still love her, after entire lifetimes apart? His century, her century, the one since ... love as a concept is endangered now. Few people pairbond anymore, much less pretend it's for life, and yet, and yet ...

He aches. The memory of how he used to love her, perhaps. Such a fierce and unrelenting torture, his need to possess and own and rend apart any other man that even looked at her. That deranged heartbeat, throbbing through every inch of his body. (Mine. Mine. Mine.)

Mine to shape. Mine to take. Mine to fuck into an endless subjugation of "he saved my life" and "he's in my head" and "it's love, not obsession". 

He wanted bridal white and squalling cubs and a cabin that was cut off from the world for six months out of twelve. He knew she wasn't that girl, some nineteenth century prize, but the problem was ... he coudn't bring himself to care.

It was the bar exams, he remembers. She had worked so hard, weeks and months and years of effort, all directed towards this one, last goal; a worthy one, too, supplementing Xavier's legal team with an inhouse specialist on human rights law.

She was peaking that day, her scent rich and full, and all that fertility had dragged the Wolverine from his lair, slavering over the prospect of impregnating his delicious-smelling mate.

"I need to be there by nine, Logan!" she snapped, but he ignored her, trapping her against the door to their bedroom and biting down on her shoulder. "I don't have time," she had complained, even as she dissolved against him. She pushed him away with a groan minutes later, though, and something inside of him snapped. He shoved her skirt over her ass and ripped her panties free with one brutal yank, fingers already dragging forth her reluctant response.

"No!" she grunted, and tried to push him away, but one Cured former mutant was no match for the Wolverine. He could smell her fear, and shock, but nothing penetrated except "mine!" and his need to be inside of her, spending himself deep, filling her with his seed.

Even as her body screamed that she didn't want this.

That she couldn't believe this.

That he had lost her, forever.

He tried to hold her afterwards, but she was rigid and unresponsive in his arms. Until the moment she raised her head, and looked him in the eye.

"Get out. Be gone by the time I get back. I never want to see you again."

He never set foot in the Mansion again, and she never did see him. She never does, but he can name every man she's ever dated, the two that she married, each of her seven children, and even her favourite grandchild.

(You belong to me.)

*

Five slender volumes of poetry, five stages in the life of her favourite poet. 

He'd been six days away from the mansion when he found them in used bookstore in the backblocks of Ontario, five slender volumes in their original Spanish, pristine and unloved. "Not like anyone's ever heard of this Neruda guy," the slattern behind the counter had grunted, and he'd had to bite back his objections, knowing that Marie would sell her soul for the set.

"Give ya five bucks," he'd shrugged, and handed the cash over with a show of reluctance. He would have paid fifty times as much for the one gift she could never turn down, so precious that it would live on her bedside table, no matter the circumstances of their parting.

There are no words for how sorry he is, and everything he wants to say sounds like a threat, so he writes nothing. His signature lies in the gorgeously decorated slipcase he commissions a contact to make. The tiny cameras are invisible, bodies concealed in the luxurious quilting, and lenses invisible amidst a riot of mirrors and jewels. 

He is present in her bedroom from the day she opens the box. There are men, sometimes, and he cries with her on the nights she can't find any pleasure in them, and tries not to rejoice in the mornings when she wakes alone. She turns to her poems, then, rolling the sibilants off her tongue and tasting the joy and power in the words as if she can borrow some of it for herself. 

It couldn't be him she was thinking of, he told himself when tears rolled down her beautiful face. He was the monster who had raped her. Love was impossible, and it was merely the death of possibility that she mourned, he insisted.

And he really loved her, so he would set her free. Eventually.

*

Her belly had begun to swell. 

She had knocked her poems askew, that morning, so he was treated to the sight of her in front of the mirror, naked, hands roaming her belly. Softly rounded, he realised, and didn't even have to count back. Nearly six months since he had abandoned himself to damnation.

She doesn't have to have the baby. He knows that, and his feral heart starts to slam against his ribs, a desperate crescendo of rage and horror building inside of him until it drowns out sight and sound and feeling. He strikes out blindly, and long minutes elapse until he comes to, a broken man sitting in sea of debris, his hands aching from the clash of claws against metal and timber and even the floor. And his own, stubborn flesh, he realises as he finds himself soaked with blood. The only thing he can't overcome, can't kill, no matter how much he deserves a death.

The Wolverine is still thrashing, calling out for its cub, so he knows what he needs to do. Let go. Leave. Disappear. Let her be.

Fate will torture him with news of his child sooner or later, he knows.

*

He drifts. All points of the compass. All types of jobs. Sometimes working with the white hats, sometimes not.

Time drifts past, and still he stays away. Ten years. Twenty. Thirty. Soon, he thinks. Soon it will be safe to go back, to ask the question. 

Forty. Fifty. 

Women are just a distraction, now. He doesn't love. Doesn't care. Sometimes he doesn't even bother to fuck, saving up his potency to spend in the fight. A monk's trick, that, from the years he spent in Tibet.

It comes in handy when the war starts.

He thinks Xavier's will be okay, at first. The endless billions of the Xavier legacy still attract young mutants from around the world, and over the years, the administration has nestled closer and closer to the now mutant-friendly American government.

Doesn't help them much when Legacy arrives.

He gets sick, and can't help but welcome something that might actually have a chance at killing him.

He recovered. Developed antibodies, apparently.

They need you, the doc in London begged. Go to Xavier's. "Doctor McCoy is developing a Cure, but he has precious little to work on so far - a handful of people, all from one family. Superhealers. You've heard of the Rogue?"

*

He organised to meet Beast at a clinic in Salem Centre, and told him to keep it quiet. Not quiet enough, apparently. 

Logan's on his back, having blood taken, when she strides through the double doors. It's the first thing he notices, the fact that she moves differently, now.

Then he remembers that she is supposed to be an old woman. 

She looks 25. No more than 30 at the most. Her body has a lushness he's never seen before, and it makes him quake with lust for this woman he loves. She raises her eyebrows at his growl, and rolls her eyes in contempt.

"Really, Logan? Fifty years and change, and you _growl_ at me?"

He can't speak, can't say anything worth saying, so simply shrugs.

"So here's a real question, then. How do I explain to my son, and his children, that their father and grandfather has just rolled into town. A man they have only ever heard rumours of, who we thought was dead, and yet - here you are?"

"Lie?"

"The genetics are pretty inescapable. Superhealers aren't common - Logan got it from you, and I got it from Logan."

He forces himself to ignore the fact that she called their son Logan, and focus on the puzzle.

"So that's nothing to do with your original mutation?" he can't stop himself from asking. "My kid gave you his healing?"

Her mouth quirks, as if she's told this story too many times before. Too bad. He needs to hear it.

"It's probably more complex than that. His cells almost certainly reversed the Cure, in utero. And his contact with my mutation then triggered some sort of healing response in my own body chemistry, as if I took his mutation without harming him. It's happened with each of my children - I've picked up a new mutation every time," she explained.

He wants to snarl "fuck your other children" but figures it wouldn't be wise. She stinks of another man, and he knows he has no rights here. Doesn't even want to have any rights, except to be left alone. Ignored.

But apparently that wasn't going to happen.

"Why are you here? Why didn't you come to the Mansion?" she asks with genuine puzzlement, and he stares at her, unwilling to believe she has just forgotten. (Maybe, she has forgiven. Maybe he can have his life back, hope is shrilling, and he knows that's not true, so what would he want with forgiveness?)

"You told me to get out," he says flatly. "I owed you that, at least."

"Logan, that was, God, fifty years ago. I'm not saying it's okay - it wasn't - but I've moved past it. I raised your son!"

He looks away, ashamed that that isn't the end of it.

"Is he a feral? Or just a healer?"

"Both," she said with a frown. "Why?"

"Ask him why I can't come home. He'll know."

Something flickers across her face that tells him that maybe she already knows, but decided to ask anyway. He can't tell her, can't bear to admit that he is a danger to her, even though she has already learnt that in the worst possible way.

And then the Wolverine prowling in his head senses another man, the man that smells of Marie, and he is reminded that sins he hasn't committed yet. Horrors he might still inflict.

The knock on the door is perfunctory, and a small brown man sticks his head around the jamb a moment later. 

"Sorry to interrupt, sweetheart, but it's 2pm. We promised to take the kids out at 2.30," he says, and he smells of her, smells of long intimacy and a shared bed and mingled lives.

"Logan, this is my husband, Jehan," Marie offers. "Jehan - James Howlett, known as Logan. My Logan's father."

"Pleased to meet you," the man nodded, completely still and submissive, and that was when Logan twigged. He was used to dealing with a feral. Knew what to do. This man had been terrorised by his son.

He bares his teeth in a grimace, and pretends it's a smile. It's deafening him, though, his animal screeching for the other man's blood. Wolverine can't help but see a rival, and his first instinct is to rip the man's heart from his chest.

"Best I stay over here," he concedes, and nods to Rogue. "Bring the kid to me. I ain't going there. Keep everyone else away."

And he closes his eyes, and doesn't open them until everyone leaves, lest his claws refuse to stay sheathed any longer. Once they are gone, he walks out - of the room, of the clinic, of the town. They're just gonna have to save the world without him.

"Mine. Mine. Mine!" the beast rages with every step.

*

He's in Japan when they beat Legacy, but it leaves a wasteland in its wake. One in two mutants has died, the world's only mutant-friendly government came crashing down, to be replaced by the worst kind of bigots. He starts to hear rumours about Xavier's being targeted again, and about hate crimes, and about camps, and then the Second Mutant War is raging around him, all around the world.

He's breaking out of the prison camp in Genosha when he finally meets the boy. Chaos is the prisoner's best friend, so he opens every cell he can find, slicing the old fashioned locks clear off the low rent cells. The solitary wing made his own adamantium prison look like a palace ... even if there were more people down there.

At least he was fed. Down here, they subsist on rats and fetid puddles of water, the death rate so high, the cells never run out of space.

Hell for anyone. An endless hell for a man that can't die, and that's where he found his son.

His sense of smell had been completely overwhelmed, so it must have been some other trigger responsible for the immediate identification of the emaciated figure huddled in the far corner of the cell.

"Logan D'Ancanto."

"Who's asking?"

"No one's fucking asking. Get up. Busting out of here."

"Too weak. No rats."

"You get anything of your mother's mutation?"

"What?" The other man is mute with incomprehension for a moment, and then he shuffles forward to stare at Logan.

"Holy shit. You're him."

Logan shrugs, and puts the question again. "Can you take any of my healing?"

"Nah. Leave me here. Tell ma what happened."

"Fuck that."

He carries the boy out on his shoulders, wishing he was more of a burden. He leaves him on the shore, where the mutant forces are collecting prisoners for the trip home.

"Why'd you leave?" Junior says gracelessly, and Logan stares into amber eyes, so like his own. 

"Leave her husband alone. He's good to her."

(But she belongs to me.)

*

He's back in Tibet when the call comes, half a lifetime later.

"My mother's ill. She's not expected to make it," Junior's toneless voice tells him over the phone. "You want to see her, you need to come now."

He doesn't ask why they bothered to call him, or if she wants to see him. She can't leave him, she can't, and he's nearly mindless with the agony of it.

One of Nightcrawler's spawn bamfs into the room, and waits patiently.

"I can take you straight to her," the blue woman says, and he can see a very familiar serenity and poise in those vertically slitted eyes.

"Ororo's kid, right? With Kurt?"

She smiles. "Um, no. Grandchild. Atreya was my mom. I didn't realise you knew them - they've been gone so long now. I'm Trieste." 

"Thanks. If I forget to say it later. Thank you."

"Everyone loves Rogue, Wolverine. And no one has forgotten you."

Except her, he wants to say. She needed to forget me. It was the best thing.

She is white and frail in the bed, and her eyes don't open until his tears splash onto her hand.

"Logan," she says, and he wants her to smile, and take the pain away. She doesn't, though. She twists the knife, and makes it worse.

"I loved you all my life. And I hated you for leaving. Why?"

She's dying, and he owes her an answer, but he can't believe she doesn't know already.

"What I did to you. It was unforgiveable. You told me to go."

"But we loved each other! And you never said sorry, or goodbye, or let me know you were alive. " She stopped short to drag air into her lungs, and he could hear them rattling, could hear her body giving up.

"I'm sorry," is all he can say, and he doesn't want to lie to her, and that's safe. He's always been sorry. But then, when the breath starts to fail her altogether, and her heartbeat slows in stuttering increments, he panics.

"You can't, Marie! You can't go. You belong to me!" he screams, snatching her to him and sending the medical equipment screaming.

"You belong to me," he repeats, as she grows cold in his arms, her mutation stubbornly silenced.

"You belong to me," he whispers to the wind at her graveside, knowing that every clot of dirt he throws on her coffin is another nail in his own.

"You belong to me," he grins as they rush him, two weeks later, and he can't even be bothered to pop the claws, or to elude the blows, or to breathe at all.

"At last," he thinks, as the world greys, and a brightness leads him somewhere else, somewhere he is a just a man, free of the Wolverine. He's broken up a brawl, and there's a woman there, 'bout his age, a woman called Marie who he knows will laugh when she runs gentle fingertips over his bruises, and scold him for thinking he's immortal. Then they'll make love, so gently he cries, and maybe there will be a baby, and a family, and a love so big that nothing can ever come between them.

And he will belong to her, forever. 

_fin_

 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction was written for personal enjoyment rather than profit. No infringement on the rights of the intellectual property owners is intended.


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